


Accidental Confessions of an Elf

by SilverWolfPup



Series: "Ma'vhenan." "Yes, amatus?" [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Accidental Confession of Love, Flirting, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Innuendo, Language, M/M, mild possessive behaviour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 15:17:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5421839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverWolfPup/pseuds/SilverWolfPup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lavellan's been muttering in elvish during intimate moments, and he's refused to translate. So when Dorian finally translates them himself, he and the Inquisitor have a chat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accidental Confessions of an Elf

The Inquisitor was a very unusual man, even ignoring that he was an elf. Tall and lean and perpetually in a calm, relaxed yet _prepared_ posture, his eyes were knowing and sharp and deeply emerald, like the dark fathomless green of the deep forest. He wore the brown-tattooed vallaslin of Andruil the huntress, and his hair was cut short and light brown. His hands were hard-callused and his left arm bore the sharp marks of years of archery. He was light-footed, quick and agile, always with an air of controlled and compressed energy, let loose when necessary and only as much as needed.

Around Dorian he was by turns entirely content in his own skin and as uncertain as a child, pressing himself up next to him entirely sure of his welcome, the length of his body right up to his, but then he would kiss him carefully, warily, always willing to draw back should he not be welcome.

Dorian didn’t know how to tell him that he was always welcome.

And when they spent time together it wasn’t always the touching and the heat; it was a banked warmth as they spoke and laughed and played games, Lavellan curling himself against him and leaning his head onto his chest, fingers absently messing with his clothes, his breathing calm and even like he slept but the fire-light reflected in his open eyes.

And the words slipped out in their own languages; “ _Amatus_ ,” Dorian would chide unthinkingly, and the elf would grin back entirely unaware of what the mage had confessed. But elvish would trip off Lavellan’s tongue as well, and while Dorian was sure half of them were insults some of them were said softly, and when he asked Lavellan would flush and refuse to answer. It seemed Lavellan forgot the books he loved so much included books on elvish; or perhaps he simply could not bring himself to say it in a language they shared.

“Ma’falon,” he had named him once in Haven, looking at him wonderingly. “Lethallan,” had been said three or four times since their arrival in Skyhold, once accompanied by a “Ma’serannas,” when he’d dragged him away from a particularly sneaky bandit. Those occurrences had ended with the next collection of words; “Vhenan,” whispered as he pulled a book from Dorian’s hands and ensured he made his way to his bed. “Ma vhenan’ara,” laughed during a pause in a particularly heated kiss. “Ma sa’lath,” whispered in bed as Dorian fell asleep.

He nearly asked Solas; did, regarding _lethallan_ and _ma’falon_. The looks he’d been given during those translations were unreadable. The other three, though. He didn’t know, but the way they’d been said, soft, looking at him like he was precious… they felt too personal.

Dorian would laugh if it turned out they were things like, “You should sleep,” or, “That tickles.”

He found their meanings in a love poem that had been painstakingly translated a hundred years ago from a passage in one of the few books that had survived the destruction of Arlathan. He’d nearly stopped breathing when he’d been certain of the translation, double-checked in another three books; the look on his face had dragged Lavellan back from a discussion with Helisma on the newest research to ask if he was all right.

“I’m fine,” he’d managed, despite the way his heart was pounding like a hammer, and he offered the elf a charming grin. “Though don’t be afraid to kiss me better.” The insinuation in his voice easily masked the shakiness, and brought out Lavellan’s smile.

“Never,” the elf responded gracefully, grinning like a predator and sliding easily into his space… but not close enough to _touch_.

With a growled, “ _Fasta vass_ ,” he dragged the Inquisitor into a rough, fierce kiss. It belatedly occurred to him that Lavellan might want gentler, but that point was moot at how he was responding, fierce and wild.

After a few minutes he dragged himself away to breathe, panting slightly. The expression on the elf’s face was smug, though he was panting too.

Strangely enough, the fierceness of the kiss had calmed him despite the flickering heat in his veins. He met Lavellan’s eyes, turning contemplative as he examined the thousand shades of green in them.

Lavellan evidently felt the shift, his expression shifting to inquiring, eyes large and soft like grass, the grass you could roll in and treat like a bed.

“So I’m your one love, am I?”

It should have come out as a joke. That sort of thing always, _always_ came out as a joke. But his voice was soft, hushed. Private.

Lavellan started, a slight flinch, his eyes widening. “I don’t know what you-”

Dorian covered his mouth, and Lavellan stilled despite the minute tremors running down his form, his eyes wide like a frightened halla’s.

“Ma sa’lath,” he said, the graceful words clumsy on his un-practiced tongue. “That’s what you called me. I looked it up. ‘My one love.’ That is what it means, yes?”

Lavellan didn’t untense, but he nodded, slow and unsteady, eyes searching Dorian’s. Dorian huffed a laugh, soft. “Do you know what ‘amatus’ means?”

Lavellan shook his head.

“‘My loved one’,” he translated, and Lavellan drew in a startled breath. The wideness of his eyes looked more like that of hope than fear, and Dorian dropped his hand. For a moment Lavellan didn’t respond, but then he dragged Dorian in for a kiss.

“Ar lath ma,” he whispered like a prayer. “I really, really do. Ma vhenan’ara, what did I do to deserve you?”

Dorian chuckled, a little choked and wet. “What did I do to deserve _you_ ,” he responded. “The kindest, _best_ man in Thedas, and you’re all mine.”

“And _you_ are _mine_ ,” Lavellan responded, tone implacable and stern and utterly possessive. Commanding. A spark of heat licked hungrily up Dorian’s spine, sliding into his eyes. Lavellan blinked, and then he smiled, predatory and challenging.

When Lavellan danced away, obviously heading for the bedroom, Dorian followed without a trace of hesitation.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:  
> Amatus: Loved one/beloved  
> Ma'falon: My friend  
> Lethallan: Clanmate, one who is as close as blood kin  
> Ma'serannas: My thanks  
> Vhenan: Heart (implied 'mine')  
> Ma vhenan'ara: My heart's desire  
> Ma sa'lath: My one love  
> Fasta vass: General expletive  
> Ar lath ma: I love you


End file.
